Home Is More

than generations of

the same river,

the same valley,

the same hills,

the same tales.

Records in Family Bibles

contain blank lines.

Not all stories seek a witness.

Memories stumble.

Names go missing.

Fractures appear. 

Identity refuses to give itself whole.

At some point longing 

gives way to listening.

At some point our lives begin

to open outward.

At some point we remember our souls

are shaped by the contours of people

who understand us,

who walk with us,

who are already here.

At some point we discover belonging

isn’t a mystery to be solved.

It’s something we consent to.